Sub Luna
by cuthalion
Summary: A tale about Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks, set directly after the events of HalfBlood Prince. Sometimes fighting for what you love and desire means taking the strangest of risks and choosing a path you've never dared to walk before. EPILOGUE ADDED!
1. Sunlight

**Sub Luna**

By _Cúthalion_

_**1.Afternoon **_

She walks through his small flat on this sunny summer afternoon, feeling his presence behind her like a warm, hesitating shadow. Over the last few months she has nearly lost hope that he might bring her here, to his refuge and hiding place… three tiny rooms in a house that was grand once, a generation ago. Now it is shabby, in need of paint, crammed between an Indian supermarket and a Tattoo studio in Bayswater.

"Tea?" he asks. She turns to him, her dark eyes alight with the emotions she's been suppressing far too long, and she feels her face relax in a smile.

"You will have to brew it yourself," she says, "I won't be of any help… I might break the pot."

"You're not _that_ clumsy, are you?" He steps closer; her skin prickles, eagerly awaiting his touch, but he makes no attempt to close the distance between them… not yet.

"You have no idea." Tonks bites her lower lip. "In my sixth year I managed to knock Charlie Weasley's cauldron over while he was trying to give his Polyjuice Potion a last stir. He was gallant enough to say that it was his fault. Gryffindor lost fifty points that day."

_Snape._ She hasn't mentioned the name of the teacher who mercilessly and deliberately misjudged Charlie back then, in that cold, foul-smelling dungeon; it isn't necessary anyway. Suddenly the haggard, bitter features hover between them like a kind of dark, shadowy Patronus, and Remus can sense it, too. For the fraction of a second a darting flame flickers in his eyes, turning the gentle brown into a feral yellow… but she doesn't wince. She has her own demons, and she refuses to be frightened by his.

"Fifty points is downright negligible," he remarks, finally reaching out and almost shyly touching her. "The Marauders did much worse. They..." He breaks off. Any funny anecdote, meant to comfort her, is swept away by darker memories. _James, Sirius, Peter and Remus._ Two of them dead, one a traitor of epic measure, the last one left behind to remember. Tonks shivers and feels her heart sink, despite the warm hand on her shoulder. _So many possible mistakes to make. So many traps to stumble into. _

"Tonks?"

She blinks, and now he's definitely close; she can feel his warm breath on her face, and vaguely she wonders how on earth he manages to make her name sound like a soothing caress. _'Tonks,'_ she remembers a brawny Slytherin scoff some time during her sixth year, _'Tonks… reminds me of something falling into a puddle.' _Five years later that same Slytherin failed two attempts to pass the Concealment and Disguise exam, and she assumes that he still hates her for having had no problems in achieving what he couldn't.

"Remus…"

Her arms seem to have a will of their own… they sneak up and close around his neck. She marvels at the unfamiliar, exciting texture of his skin and hair and a moment later feels his fingers combing her own hair, running the glossy tresses between his fingertips… a tender reply to her very first bold exploration. His lips are soft, their touch not passionate and demanding but nearly… thankful.

She smiles up at him, her eyes gentle. "What about the tea?"


	2. Sunset

2.**_Sunset_**

He tries to send her away that first evening. She has clearly foreseen that this would happen, and she adamantly refuses to leave.

"But we are… I mean we are _not…"_ he protests.

"Of course we are not," she replies. "I don't care. And I am sure neither Bill nor Fleur have ever bothered with your… _doubts."_

That comes out sharper than intended, and his gaze matches her clipped remark. But his voice is very quiet.

"They have different problems, haven't they?"

She laughs, a surprisingly harsh sound in the silent kitchen. "Have you seen Bill's face lately? If I am not very much mistaken, you were _both_ marked by the same teeth."

They are clearing the table, and in her sudden anger and petrified shame at what she's just said Tonks misses the sink. With a loud bang the teapot crashes on the uneven kitchen tiles. Shards explode in every direction and she stands with empty hands, eyes downcast, swearing under her breath. The determined speech she has been planning the whole afternoon remains unsaid, and then he gives a small sound, half sigh, half laughter. There is the short, elegant flick of a wand, and the broken remnants hurriedly collect themselves on a dustpan which empties them neatly into the garbage bin.

"You're right," he whispers, close once more, and she leans her brow against his chest, feeling the softness of the well-worn grey pullover. "If you have no time for doubts, I shouldn't have either." He gives that sound again, and this time it is a sigh. "I'm simply not… not used to this."

_Not used to what? To real trust and affection? To the fact that someone should be drawn to him despite the painful change he suffers every time the moon turns to a round silver coin in the night sky? Not used to being loved?_

Tonks doesn't speak. She is too busy taking in his scent… dust, ink, paper and something else she is unable to define. This time her arms obey her will when they close around him; he returns her embrace and they stand in a pool of golden sunlight, gently swaying and lost in the sound of each other's breath. 


	3. Dusk

3. _**Dusk**_

When she enters his bedroom, daylight still lingers behind the dusty window panes – watery blue, streaked with pink and orange. The walls are undecorated and bare, no pictures or paintings, no curtains. One of her – very few - Muggle friends once took her to an ancient monastery when she visited her during the summer holidays; the cells of the monks who lived and prayed there had shown a livelier atmosphere.

The bed looks astonishingly comfortable, though… with huge pillows, ample duvets and a beautiful quilt in gentle hues of green and lavender, with delicately embroidered patterns. He sees her surprised gaze and gives a small, crooked smile.

"It is new," he says. "I saw it last week, in a showcase… and when I actually stepped inside the shop and asked for it, the saleslady eyed me from head to toe as if I was a hippogriff." He chuckles. "I suppose I simply don't look like the usual blushing bride collecting her trousseau."

"You bought it for me," she says. It is a statement, no question.

"I… yes, I did." The crooked smile deepens. "Sort of."

He has been trying to send her away, but at the same time he has been imagining her here, stretched on that lovely patchwork cover… and she steps over to the bed and sits down on the mattress, the fabric of the quilt soft like silk under her palms. He stands in the middle of the room, gazing down at her, his eyes filled with an unsettling mixture of concern and hope.

_No time for doubts. _

Without any further hesitation, Tonks pulls the dark blue shirt over her head. Pink strands of hair obscure her sight, but she shakes her head impatiently. She has never needed any bra; she leans back on the bed, bare to the waist, her skin pearly white, breasts small and firm. Her laughter is promise and alluring challenge at the same time.

"Did you dream of _this?"_ she whispers.

"Merlin. I… Tonks, this… _you…"_ His voice is rough, but in his face there is nothing left but a bone deep relief and utter amazement as he finally gives in to his long suppressed desire. He kneels in front of the bed and she joyfully rises to meet him. He reaches for her, and with aching tenderness his hands follow the hills and valleys of her neck and shoulders.

She studies his face as he touches her, determined not to miss anything. She always thought she knew him, but this man is entirely unfamiliar to her… so much gentleness, almost the shy jubilation of a boy holding a girl for the very first time. She wonders how many women there have been before – if any, given the curse that has condemned him to secrecy and loneliness since the early days of his childhood. But he is clearly more experienced than she is… she feels it in the soft but firm brush of his long fingers, in the warm rain of kisses on her face and on her breasts when his slow exploration melts into something deeper. Heat rises in her body, making her gasp with surprise when his mouth closes over an erect nipple, gently sucking. She trembles and arches against him, overcome by a wave of newly discovered desire, and she barely notices him undressing himself and then stripping off her thin cotton skirt and panties until they are both naked, limbs tangled and skin to bare skin on a surging ocean of green and lavender.

However she expected this to be, it is stunningly _different._ He murmurs her name; an incantation, a sweet, intoxicating spell that makes her head spin with shivering delight. She wants him closer, closer… she wants him _inside_ her, and she hears her own voice, giving pleading sighs and breathless sobs… and then he turns on his back and pulls her on top of him, gently positioning himself and guiding her until their bodies melt.

For one frozen moment she keeps completely still and finally begins to move, eyes closed, biting her lip in deep concentration. She rises above him and sinks down, moaning helplessly when they find their rhythm and he fills her again and again. The heat within her body has turned to roaring flames, burning a fiery path through her veins until she feels the soft explosion of his climax in her very core and collapses on his bare chest, shuddering under the violence of their united release and the echo of his strangled cry.  



	4. Dawn

4. **_Dawn_**

There are questions you almost never ask in the light of day; they demand the mysterious silence of nighttime, the limbo between dream and reality. She opens her eyes a short while before dawn; the windows are deep gray squares in the darkness, shot with the flashing fingers of passing car headlights.

She raises her head and feels his fingers smooth her tousled hair. His voice is a warm whisper against her cheek.

"Have you ever tried to change into an animal?"

She props up on one elbow and stares at him. His eyes are shimmering faintly, and she can feel his steady heartbeat under her hand.

"Have you?"

Slowly she shakes her head. "No, never," she says quietly. "And I know of only two Metamorphmagi who ever took the form of an animal. One of them, Aurora Bloom, lived in the early seventeenth century and turned into a sheep… a whimsy, I guess, but she was well-known as a rather eccentric old lady. They found her three days later, seemingly torn by a wolf."

The last sentence of the old, all too familiar story slips out before she can hinder it. For a second, the heartbeat beyond her fingers falters, then it returns to its measured rhythm.

"No werewolf, I suppose." His calm tone is reassuring, but still she swallows, cold with horror about her own thoughtlessness.

"No, it was a sheep-dog turned wild," she finally manages, voice still a little shaky. "In fact, it was her son's own sheep-dog… Ambrose Bloom, his name was. The poor man never really recovered from the shock."

"And the second one?"

"A descendant of Aurora Bloom, Ambrose's granddaughter Araminta. She didn't make the same mistake as Lady Aurora. She took the form of an eagle several times and seemingly had no problems finding her way back to her human shape. Araminta got very old, but in her last years she got involved in an ongoing dispute about a piece of land with her closest neighbor, obviously a minor squire and relative to the Malfoys… from a far-away branch of the family tree, I suppose, for the sources are rather vague when it comes to that particular detail."

Remus sits up in the bed, and the very next second the candles in the holder on the night stand are burning. It is a small gesture with splayed fingers and no wand at all, an ability that has never failed to astonish her, from the very first time she saw him do it. Warm, golden brightness spreads over the quilt and his naked chest.

"What happened then?"

"One spring morning she had breakfast with her son and then left the house for a walk. Half an hour later people saw a big eagle circling over the village and then sailing away over the treetops of the nearby woods. She didn't come home that day, but the next midday her son's gamekeeper found her dead in a clearing, every bone smashed as if she had fallen from great height. There was an arrow protruding from her chest."

His eyes are quiet and thoughtful, with a spark of dark irony.

"Aha. So the minor Malfoy-squire decided to get rid of his annoying opponent by using a bow?"

"Seemingly, yes." A small grin tugs at the corners of her mouth. "Though it could as easily have been a member of the Black-dynasty, there were enough pure-blood marriages between both families after all. I wouldn't be surprised… Sirius was the white sheep of the family, wasn't he?"

"True." His gaze strays away, and for a staggering moment that fateful afternoon in the Ministry of Magic rises between them like a wall._ Screams, green bolts of light hissing over her head, and then the merciless face of her aunt swimming into her vision… seconds before a sharp, fast flick of Bellatrix' wand sends her, first into howling pain, and then into oblivion. _

Tonks shudders, and with a swift, flowing movement he leans in to pull her close.

"Don't think of it," he murmurs into her hair. "We both have many things to put behind us; if we don't, our dreams may remain dark for the rest of our lives." His lips touch her brow. "And tonight I want them to be as bright as possible."

She buries her face against his chest, instinctively searching for the reassuring rhythm of his heart; she is not able to return the smile she can hear in his voice. After a silence he speaks again.

"What was Lady Aurora's mistake?"

She frowns. "Lady Aurora's… oh. She… you know, she turned into _prey."_ She hesitates, not entirely sure how to explain something that seems strange enough even to her. "If… if you turn into an animal further down the food chain, you risk being eaten… especially if you don't manage to keep the connection to the place deeply within you that always stays human. For a Metamorphmagus, turning into someone else is like a waterfall of images running through your mind and soul like a maelstrom. It can get overwhelming, even dangerous if you're not used to it… or frightened."

"I see." His sigh stirs her hair and he falls silent again. Tonks is not willing to leave it at that, though. Now it is her turn to ask one of the questions never meant to be asked in the light of day.

"Two weeks more and we will have a full moon," she says, her voice clear and thin. "Will you let me stay with you?"

The body in her arms goes rigid, but his heart doesn't miss a beat – as if he had been waiting for this question quite some time, and already steeled himself against it.

"No." His tone is gentle but firm. "And you know why."

"No, I don't." She feels like a stupid pupil in her first year, standing before the headmaster's office after a particularly nasty prank. But she can't help it. "I _don't."_

"You remember that Severus used to brew the Wolfsbane Potion for me, do you?" he patiently says. "And I highly doubt that he is willing to do it for me right now, given the circumstances. I'd have to find him first, and he would most likely use one of the Unforgivable Curses on me."

"But…"

"No." Now his voice has a slightly strained undertone. "Nobody should be around me while I'm… while I'm changed. I would bring you in danger. I would most certainly harm you. The last time I was not alone and turned into a werewolf, I nearly mauled Harry and Hermione. And that time the potion was available… this time it isn't."

"And if you had the potion… would you let me stay then?"

"No." He shakes his head, his hands drawing gentle, massaging circles on her cramped shoulders. "No, love, I would not."

The thoughts rush in her head, slowly forming a bold image that makes her breath go faster. _It might work – perhaps… But it would mean that she… _Tonks swallows, slowly and deliberately pushing the sudden, icy panic aside and letting every limb relax as if in resigned defeat. She won't give in to the fear. Here is everything she ever longed for, everything she always dreamt of. _It is thousandfold worth the risk._

"Tough luck, I think," she murmurs against his warm skin. "Don't be upset… I simply had to try."

He is not fooled that easily. He raises his head, peering at her through the growing brightness in the silent room. "No hysterical tears? No desperate pleas? No threatening to rain down every curse you've ever known?"

Surprisingly enough she feels the irritating urge to giggle. "Of course not. I fear you mistake me for Bellatrix."

"Not at all." Laughter vibrates through his chest, and suddenly she finds herself lying on her back, held down by sinewy arms and a lithe, naked body. "And I'll prove it to you at once, my lovely witch." His lips brush over her mouth. "Oh… and never fear, we will be able to be at the Burrow when Fleur and Bill make their promises. They have agreed on a date two weeks after the next full moon. Arthur and Molly simply wanted to be sure that Fleur is not too… surprised at what she finds in her wedding bed."

"You still underestimate her, all of you," Tonks whispers, her hands following a curious, arousing trail down to his buttocks. "She won't be surprised… and certainly not disappointed."

Her mouth invites him in, every thought washed away by a wave of thrilling, delirious sensations. But she still will make her plans… _later. _  



	5. Waxing Moon

**_3. Waxing Moon _**

The following week is rather quiet. They spend every single minute together, enjoying the new closeness, the touch, the whispered words at the brim of sleep. Sometimes Tonks wakes up in the middle of the night and gazes at his silent face, still not able to believe her luck.

After the first few nights she doesn't get very much sleep, though. As soon as she hears his breath grow slow and regular, she slips out of the bed and down into the kitchen and waves her wand lazily in the direction of his second-best tea pot which kindly agrees to serve some strangely flavoured _Earl Grey._ She sits in front of the steaming mug, silently speculating, silently planning, before she can see the road she has to take now.

There are still a few imponderables. But she knows who to ask for advice, and the person in question will be able to show her the next step. It is dangerous, she knows it with grim clarity. She might be discovered, and by the wrong people… but she is not ready to waste a single thought on this particular danger. She has mustered all her courage to break through the barriers between them, and she is not willing to give up the treasure she has just gained.

The first night of August is unusually cool this year, and Professor McGonagall has lit a small fire in the fireplace of the headmaster's study… luckily for Tonks who raises her head out of the flames a few minutes past midnight.

She has a moment to watch her former teacher unnoticed; in the last few months she has understood her better than she ever did before. Many of the Gryffindors who have been shriveling under her iron gaze would be very surprised if they had any idea of her painful doubts.

"Minerva…?"

The interim headmistress jumps slightly and drops her quill; ink splashes over the parchment on the desk and with an impatient flick of her wand she removes the mess. When she recognizes her unexpected guest, she gives an exasperated snort.

"Have you any idea what time it is?"

"I'm sorry, Professor," Tonks says, instantly slipping back into the role she has been accustomed to for many years. The fact that they are both members of the Order has seemingly not been able to change a single iota of her long-trained behavior. "I fear I need your help."

She musters her courage and starts to explain; McGonagall listens with a deep, vertical fold above her nose, the sharp cat eyes behind the tortoise shell glasses never moving from Tonks' face. When Tonks has finished her scrupulously prepared speech, there is a long moment of heavy silence.

"You must first find out where it is hidden," Minerva finally says. "but that should be no problem. I only wish we wouldn't have to bother Potter with this. Ah well… I suppose we have no choice. And after you've found it, you will need further assistance. If I remember correctly, this was not your favorite subject."

There is no way to deny what is so obviously true. Tonks gives a slightly ironic smile. "I am sure you have someone in mind."

Minerva rubs her brow as if trying to get rid of a piercing headache and sighs. "I have indeed," she says. "Hermione Granger is exactly the right choice – she already managed in her second year what you failed to achieve in your seventh. You should be able to meet her in the Burrow. And please come back as soon as you can tell me where to look."

The last thing Tonks sees of the headmaster's study that night is Dumbledore's portrait behind McGonagall's right shoulder; it opens its eyes just as she's about to sink back into the fire. All the time while she stifles the flames in Remus' small kitchen fireplace, while she straightens her aching back and silently walks up the stairs into the bedroom, the small, humorous smile she saw on its face fills her with infinite sadness.---

That next morning is actually the first time since her arrival that Remus leaves the house. He offers no particular reason, he just tells her he feels the need for a long walk. Tonks is rather sure that he wants to take a breath of fresh air as long as the change hasn't overcome him… and that he needs some time alone and is both too tactful and too kind to tell her.

_Still nine more days until the moon is full. _

Tonks is much too busy to feel neglected or to bear him a grudge. Barely half an hour after his departure she Apparates in Mrs. Weasley's vegetable garden, nearly tangling herself in the neat row of bean poles. Molly is just plucking fresh salad for lunch, and Tonks' sudden appearance startles her so much that her basket takes unexpected flight and sails through the air like a wicker projectile, barely missing Tonks' head and strewing her shoulders with lamb's lettuce.

"Hello, Molly." Tonks smiles apologetically, brushing small, green leaves from her blouse. "I'm really sorry… I didn't mean to scare you." She cuts off the inevitable invitation to tea, biscuits and a comfortable talk by touching the elder woman's shoulder. "Is Harry here?"

Molly peers up at her with curious eyes.

"I haven't seen him since breakfast," she says. "He's terribly quiet these days… and he doesn't eat enough." She gives a rather unhappy sigh. "He reminds me of a magical door someone has sealed with at least seven unbreakable spells."

Tonks feels the corners of her mouth curl upwards, but it is no happy smile either.

"If he keeps the door closed of his own accord, you should not try to force your way through," she gently says. "He has endured more loss, anguish and pain than anyone should. There is no use in putting him under pressure… even if you do it for his own good, and out of love."

Molly has collected the last scattered lamb's lettuce and Tonks follows her as she heads back to the house. "I will have to go back soon… where is Hermione?"

"In Ginny's room." The curiosity in Molly's eyes has reached a new height. "Would you mind telling me what…"

"Not today." Tonks leans down and spontaneously kisses Molly's cheek, inhaling the reassuring scent of tasty food, herbs and fresh laundry that seems to be a part of her. _She smells of boisterous, noisy meals in the company of loved ones, of stories that always end with a "happily-ever-after"… it is the scent of a home every single child in the world would long for._ "Wait until the wedding is over. Then I shall snatch a bottle of wine from Arthur's cellar, we will sit until deep into the night and I will tell you everything you ever wanted to know about me."

"Everything?" Molly cocks her head and a dimple appears where Tonks' lips have just touched her skin.

"Everything." It is a solemn promise, and a cheap price for what she hopes to achieve today.

She takes the winding stairs with fast steps and finally reaches the small room Hermione shares with Ginny during the holidays. As expected, Hermione is curled up in an old rocking chair, her nose in a book.

Without many preliminaries Tonks sits down cross-legged on the carpet in front of the rocking chair and asks her first question. For a moment Hermione is completely silent, then she closes the book with a deep frown.

"There's no need to ask Harry," she says quietly, "he told me where he left it. What do you want that cursed, troublemaking thing for?"

Tonks tell her what she wants that cursed, troublemaking thing for, and she also tells her what Miss McGonagall said to her last night. Hermione's eyebrows rise until they nearly vanish under her thick hair; the frown is first replaced by a proud smile and then by sudden laughter. Tonks peers up at her with a certain surprise, and Hermione returns the gaze with shining eyes.

"We won't have to bother Professor McGonagall," she exclaims with a jubilant voice. "You know, I went to Flourish and Blotts last week and bought Damocles Belby's book. And he was proud and persnickety enough to explain every detail… though this will be the most difficult thing I've ever done, and I really don't know if…" She catches Tonks' pleading gaze and straightens her back. "And I was wrong. I will most certainly need Professor McGonagall's help. I doubt we'll get the pulverized claw of a Macedonian harpy anywhere in Diagon Alley... but I know where _she_ can find it." 


	6. Morning Tea

**Sub Luna**  
By _Cúthalion_

6. **_Morning_** **_Tea_**

Four days later she sits with Remus at the breakfast table. He is buttering a scone when suddenly a tiny owl rushes in through the open kitchen window. It circles around the lamp, cheeping like mad, until Tonks catches the lively ball of feathers and feels the small body tremble with excitement against her palm. 

"That looks like Ron's owl," Remus says, taking a sip of tea. He has been increasingly silent lately, preparing himself to send her away and to endure a new full moon and a new dolorous change, without the relative comfort of the draught to keep him sane. They haven't spoken about it, and they don't speak now while Tonks dis-entangles the message from Pig's tiny claw. She unrolls the strip of parchment. Black letters stumble over it like drunken dancers, as if written by a clumsy – or very exhausted - hand.

_It is finished; come and fetch it at once, it has to be consumed while it's still hot, or it won't work. H._

She raises her head and gives Remus a radiant smile. "Would you excuse me for a moment?"

"Ahm… of course. Would you tell me…"

"I'll be right back, love."

With a flutter of her loose summer shirt she is out of the door and the flat, rushing down the shabby stairs and out of the mansion. It is Sunday, and the street is very empty, so no one sees the young woman with the bubblegum pink hair vanish all of a sudden from in front of the Tattoo studio.--

This time she Apparates directly into Molly Weasley's kitchen. The scenery is rather… _disturbing,_ to say the least. Molly points with her wand at a huge black spot marring the ceiling, and when Tonks turns around, she spots Ginny grimly removing the shards that were once the glass door of Molly's old, inherited cupboard. The whole room stinks of sulfur and cold smoke. But what startles her most is the hunched figure sitting at the table.

"Hermione…?"

Tired eyes stare at her out of a grey, grime-smeared face; a long scratch forms a deep red line down her left cheek, from eyebrow to chin.

"What happened?" Tonks whispers, sudden guilt tugging at her heart. "Did you blow up the kitchen?"

"No." Hermione's voice is hoarse. "Only the cauldron. Twice." She sneezes into her sleeve and leaves a coal black smear across her nose. "Luckily I hadn't added the harpy's claw yet… the rest of the ingredients are not too difficult to get. The problem isn't what you put into the cauldron, but how you stir it and the spells you have to say. The rhythm and words are terribly complicated, and if you miss only one syllable or stir in the wrong direction, you have an awful mess. And the damage that particular potion does if it explodes halfway in the making normally can't be removed with the flick of a wand."

She rises from her chair and slowly dodders in the direction of the door, her face split by a huge yawn.

"One of these days I'll bring muggle colours and brushes, and paint the kitchen walls," she murmurs, "but not before next week. I have to get some sleep first, and tonight I guess I have to brew the next one. He has to take it…" another yawn while she stands on the threshold, "… he has to take it every morning until the moon is full, and you can't brew it ahead."

With a few fast steps Tonks is by her side, gathering the young girl in a tight embrace.

"Thank you," she whispers into the tousled hair under her chin and inhales the piercing aroma of soot, sweat and exhaustion. "Thank you, Hermione. I hope someone will write a book about this some day."

"I hope I haven't made any mistakes," Hermione murmurs, "or I'd rather prefer _not_ to be mentioned."

She steps back, turns away and Tonks hears her stumbling up the winding stairs to Ginny's room. She turns around, her heartbeat loud in her ears, and Ginny hands her a clay flask, wrapped in soft fabric.

"Don't drop it." she says with an odd little smile.

_"Never."_ Tonks retorts with passionate fervency. She holds the flask close to her breast and feels the heat of the potion trickle through clay and fabric and shirt directly under her skin.

A second later she stands on the street in front of the Tattoo studio again. She ran down the stairs when she left, but now each step is careful and anxious, and it takes her nearly five minutes to reach the door of Remus' flat again. She steps inside, closes the door with one hand and walks slowly into the kitchen.

He still sits at the table, his cup of tea not even cooled down. He frowns up at her as she removes the fabric from the flask and takes a ceramic mug out of the cupboard. Tonks uncorks the flask and pours the entire contents into the mug.

"Forget your tea," she says breathlessly, her voice trembling ever-so-slightly. "Try this instead."

Slowly he reaches out and takes the mug from her hand. He dips his nose into the steam… and pales, gazing at her with disbelieving eyes. His fingers start to tremble and she hurries to support his grip;_ no drop of this must be lost._

"Tonks…" he whispers. "My God, Tonks. How…"

"I'll explain to you later," she says, blinking away the hot tears that start to obscure her sight at his stunned face. "But first you should drink."---

"Was it your idea that Hermione should try to brew the potion?"

Lunchtime is over; they have left the house for a little walk to a church nearby. Benches have been placed along the gravel walk around a circular flower bed; Tonks gazes at the happy riot of happy, luxuriously blooming roses. Her head lies in Remus' lap, and she can feel his finger slowly threading through her hair.

"McGonnagall advised me to ask her; she knew damned well that Potions was one of my worst subjects. No wonder – I constantly forgot ingredients or muddled them up. I never was the aim of Snape's bad jokes or mockery, however… I guess he thought I was simply a hopeless case."

He starts to stroke her brow; the gentle rhythm makes her drowsy.

"I had hoped that Snape wrote down the recipe in his book; Professor McGonnagall told me to ask Harry where he put it before he left Hogwarts this summer. " She yawns. "Strangely enough none of us thought of the fact that the wolfsbane potion was first brewed in 1990, long after Snape had finished school and abandoned writing his journal… Hermione knew this, of course, and she had even bought Damocles Belby's book. _Damocles Belby's Dangerous Brews_ – the title is a bad joke, but I will love the old braggart forever for his accuracy."

"The Wolfsbane Potion has earned that 'old braggart' the Order of Merlin." Remus says, mildly amused. "He would be positively horrified if he could hear you, my lovely witch."

She smiles up at him.

"Now that you have the potion – will you let me stay?"

"No, I won't." His fingers leave her brow and close around her shoulder, in a grip that is nearly painful. "You must understand this, love… the brew may have the same taste, but we can't be completely sure if it works the same way. I trust Hermione, believe me… I guess she was the only one with the skill and sheer courage to attempt this… but there's still a risk that it won't have the exact effect that it should, or that there are certain… side effects. You will leave this afternoon, and I will fetch the potion for the remaining days myself."

She doesn't object. Half an hour later they return to his flat and she packs the small bag she brought with her when she came, nearly three weeks ago. It seems unbelievable to her that a span of time should be so ridiculously short when it feels like a whole lifetime. She says good bye with a long embrace and a fiery kiss that seems even longer, and for a fleeting, eternal moment she cups his face and smiles into his eyes before she turns around and walks down the stairs.


	7. Sub Luna

7. **Sub Luna**

7. **_Sub Luna _**

****

_Seven days later_

The night is warm and clear, and the moon is a round silver coin swimming in the sky when she returns. For several minutes she stands in front of the house, waiting and staring up to the windows of his flat. There is no movement and no light. And yet he must be there; he'd never hide where his change might bring anyone in danger but himself.

_"Alohomora!"_

The front door opens; she slips into the stairway and with quick, soundless steps scurries up the stairs. The door to his flat is far more difficult. Again she pulls out her wand, deeply thankful that Remus had told her before how to overcome the powerful spells sealing it. All the time she trembles with silent fear that he might have judged her correctly; if he has decided to change the pattern, there is no chance of getting in.

She breathes the last word and touches the doorknob with the wand; the door swings back, creaking on its hinges. She steps inside and closes it as softly as possible. _If the noise has startled him awake…_

But everything remains silent. She stands in the empty corridor, inhaling deeply. This is the moment she has planned for weeks, her greatest fear… and perhaps her greatest triumph if only she succeeds. _If only she finds her way into a frighteningly different shape, a frighteningly different soul… and comes back unharmed._ In a sudden flash of memory she sees a portrait before her inner eye – an impressive, elder noble woman with sharp features and the round, commanding eyes of an eagle, a little smile curling around her lips. She is clad in the ornate silk and laces of the 18th century.

"Lady Araminta, if you ever had a heart… guide my steps now." she whispers. Then she straightens her back and empties her mind, sending her spirit out searching… searching… for swiftly running legs and coarse fur, a bushy tail and deadly fangs, for strength untamed and wild, yellow eyes.

_Close. So close. So… simple. Merlin, she'd never have thought that it would be that simple!_

She feels the change trickling under her skin and through her flesh until it fills her right to the bones. Her conscience begins to slip under the sheer violence and impossibility of fingers and feet turning into paws, of fur growing out of smooth skin and the structure of her skull arching forward to form a predator's snout. At the same time a wave of completely new sensations floods her overwhelmed mind… _smells,_ she thinks, _dear God, what an unbelievable variety of smells, sweet and strong and sharp and simply too many of them, everywhere…_ and then she stops thinking at all.

_The she-wolf stands in the corridor unmoving, yellow gaze fixed on the door of the bedroom. There, she can feel _him_, her mate, his scent filling her nostrils and making her whine softly with the need for closeness. She sniffs at the doorknob, tail wagging. Then, suddenly, she stands on her hind legs, but the forepaws find no hold against the smooth, lacquered wood and with a short, shrill yelp of fear and frustration she slides down again. Her second attempt is more successful – this time her strong fangs close around the doorknob and it actually turns. The she-wolf enters the bedroom swiftly, without any sound or sign of fear._

There he is, a big male wolf with grey fur, curled on a carpet in front of the fireplace, his massive head on his paws. At first he doesn't seem to scent her, but then, when she moves closer, he opens dark golden eyes and stares at her. He doesn't snarl or snap. He gives a sound that would remind every human listener suspiciously of a sigh, then moves slightly on the carpet, making room for her to lie beside him. The two wolves nose each other and fall asleep side by side immediately…  
almost  
… and in their dreams they cross dewy hills and shadowed meadows together, not hunting, not searching for fresh prey, just delighting in each other's company, the easy swiftness of running four-legged, in the heavy scents of the summer night and the joy of their new-found bond. They run, they run, they run, and together finally they raise their triumphant voices to hail the moon. 


	8. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The moon is enormous; its clear light pours down on her and wraps her in cool silver. She feels shivers of sheer ecstasy vibrate through her flesh - but suddenly her howling joy turns to a breathless scream at the warm, insistent touch of human hands. The fallacious protection of fur and sharp teeth is lost, and she is naked and painfully vulnerable.

She trashes wildly, giving helpless noises of panic… but there is a voice, speaking to her with deep, unerring love… tender fingers, slowly stroking her shoulders, her neck and face.

She opens her eyes.

_"Remus…?"_

**FIN**

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**A few remarks:**

The books say that Tonks "seems" to be confined to human form, but I could find no proof that this is a real fact. This gave me, of course, the ability to play. And after having finished book 7, I can now state with a mixture of relief and melancholy that Mrs Rowling granted me the satisfaction to stay unrefuted. (And no, I don't know if Tonks is anywhere related to Lady Aurora and Lady Araminta Bloom. Nice thought, btw.)

No, I have no idea about the ingredients for the wolfsbane potion (aside from the aconite, and blame the claw of the Macedonian harpy to my twisted imagination, right?). I have also no idea if Damocles Belby ever wrote a book about it or how it is brewed, and I had to come up with at least part of the procedure on my own. It must be very difficult, though, for the book says that no teacher but Snape could brew it at all.

Oh - and one more thing: This is the tale with nearly the most hits on this site among my tales that are posted here (which should mean that you find it - at least - interesting). I would like to see your opinion. I don't make any money with this (and J.K. Rowling deserves every single pound and penny for creating this marvelous universe), but your reviews are my reward. Tell me what you think!


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